


Cat in the trap

by orphan_account



Series: Carve your place in my heart [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23462296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Atsumu has never seen him break like this before. Like he is paper thin glass, reflecting light blindly to keep people away and hide his frail, ragged ends. Now he’s a jumble of shards, body twisted in sharp angles ready to cut whoever merely brushes against him.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Carve your place in my heart [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660912
Comments: 12
Kudos: 383





	Cat in the trap

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the rating! If you don't wanna read the nsfw ahead just skip from "Once they are back in the bedroom..." to "When he wakes up..."
> 
> As for the hurt/comfort it's related to the minor injury tag which is infact only a light sprain (there's no blood or gore or stuff)

It happens on a Tuesday. They left two days ago for a preseason game against the Eastern Japan Paper Mills Raijin. Nothing pressuring, just a warmup match in sight of the upcoming Spring tournament, perfect for both fan service and to rouse some friendly competition in the players. Or so their coach and manager had said.

The only thing that matters to Kiyoomi is that they are undoubtedly going to crash them - he can already picture Komori’s knowing smirk and exasperated scowl when he’ll show him how nastier his spikes have gotten. That and the fact that he and Atsumu got paired up at the hotel they are staying at.

He’s not sure his teammates know something and it somewhat puzzles him more that he truly can’t bring himself to care if they do.

The room is spacious and the floors clean and Atsumu has packed an extra pillow of their own with his things knowing that Kiyoomi felt safer when his head was as far as possible from the mattress and how he never actually managed to bring two of them without having to pick up a whole new bag. A third one, fourth if you count the gym bag.

Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu goes way back with one of the EJP players too, because he spent the whole bus ride rambling on and on about the ‘good old days’ at Inarizaki High. Kiyoomi had given him the occasional hum while trying not to doze off or brush against the window or slouch against Atsumu very warm, very solid form.

So it’s to nobody’s surprise when Atsumu gets trapped in a headlock by one of the other players, a tall brunette Kiyoomi remembers as the middle blocker with the wicked tricks up his sleeves. A bit like himself.

“Suna Rintarou”, Atsumu introduces him when he’s able to breathe properly again, Kiyoomi doesn’t say that he already knows his name and whatever the internet was able to provide him. “Future brother-in-law-AGH!”, said man, Suna, elbows him in the ribs hard, harder than Kiyoomi ever did, a soft, creepy smile gracing his sharp features as he watches Atsumu splutter and cuss, holding his offended side in a dramatic fashion.

Behind them he sees Bokuto jumping around an imposing and angry looking guy, Washio Tatsuki, middle blocker, skilled, sharp game sense. The EJP seems to have won himself quite the set up speaking of net defence or is it better to say overall defence, he wonders as he spots a bob of brown hair hopping towards him Hinata’s carrot head darting beside him and to where Bokuto is still pestering his ex-teammate.

Komori stops besides him, hand waving unnecessarily, “ ‘Sup Sakusa”, he doesn’t answer as he walks towards the entrance of the gym, pace allowing Komori to easily stroll beside him, filling the silence with his chattering. It feels so familiar even after all these years and he thanks whichever deity made him deicide not to delete Komori’s number like he did with all his other contacts when he graduated from high school.

“You got yourself quite the teammates, I’m happy you get along!”, Komori laughs while looking at Atsumu and Bokuto ahead of them, wrestling to get inside the locker room first. “Yeah”, he breathes and his face feels weird, like a taut elastic band has taken the place of his mouth. Beside him Komori makes a gasping sound and Kiyoomi meets his wide cyan eyes, rising an eyebrow questioningly, but the shorter athlete only shakes his head, mouth quirking in mirth.

He frowns, annoyance starting to creep up his spine but he gets cut off even before he manages to formulate words in his head, “Are ya gonna change outta here, Omi-Omi?”, Atsumu’s head pops out the door, hair a mess and a crooked smile stretching his wide mouth. He wiggles his eyebrows, “Jus’ sayin’ it would be quite the show, don’t wanna miss it”, he winks and waves his hand at Komori.

Kiyoomi can feel a vein pulsing on his forehead, he sniffles, chin tucked inside the wide collar of his track jacket while he glowers daggers at Atsumu. A laugh breaks out from his right, loud and clear, “Better not make Miya-san wait”, Komori rubs a tear out of his eye, then he springs off hands coming up beside his head as he mouths “cheerio” at him.

Kiyoomi huffs and heads to the locker room, shoulders slouching forward and hands digging in his pockets, “Sakusa” Komori’s voice brings him to a stop and he turns his head slightly, spotting him hovering outside his own locker room, a moment of silence passes then he speaks up again, “You’ve come a long way”, there’s honesty in his eyes, but then, Komori has always been straightforward. 

Kiyoomi gives a curt nod and steps inside, the chaotic voices of his teammates drowning out Komori’s last words. He meets Atsumu’s gaze from across the room, he’s shirtless, nodding at something Hinata is saying like he’s listening to the god of volleyball itself. His eyes linger on the tanned line of his pecs, the width of his shoulders dusted in freckles. He turns his eyes, searching for an empty and isolated spot to set his gym bag.

If only Komori knew.

*

The game starts with Atsumu’s service ace and he smiles, wide and smug while the crowd erupts in a roar of jubilation, but his eyes are trained on Kiyoomi, prompting him to “beat this”. His next serve gets picked up by Komori, Kiyoomi manages to score two consecutive aces.

The EJP’s block is as brutal as he had assumed, Washio-san is persistent and he seems to sync with Bokuto’s movements fairly fast, looks like habits do really die hard. Suna, on the other hand, is a real pain in the ass. By the time they snatch the first set he has managed to touch three of Kiyoomi’s spikes despite the mean curve he’s put with a flick of his wrist, twisty torso following the ball and rendering Komori’s digs smoother.

He stares at him, eyes thinning as they get in position for the second set and scowls harder when Atsumu pokes fun at him for it. From the other side of the net Suna turns his head sharply, grimacing when he meets his dark, sullen eyes.

The second set is a neck and neck from the moment the ball flies over the net. Kiyoomi moves around more than usual, jersey already sticking uncomfortably to his back and hair hanging heavily over his forehead. He receives when he has to, his teammates know how overly aware of his wrist conditions he is, he joins Meian and Tomas to reinforce their block, his height and long arms coming in handy and he plays the bait, jumping around more than he thinks is necessary, anything to relent the persistence of the opposing block. It doesn’t help that Komori seems in enviable shape, promising a draining fight. For every point they rack up, the other team takes one back and Kiyoomi can see Atsumu starting to get pissed, gnawing at his lower lip unconsciously.

It’ said that when you rush to finish something, like taking the sweet point that will put an end to a particularly long rally, it’s when it all ends, coming back to slap you in the face like a punching back. Kiyoomi has never felt it, he wasn’t one to act on pure animal instinct, but Komori had just dug up his nastiest spike of the game _and_ Bokuto’s cross and Atsumu was staggering, unbelievable pressure heaving on his shoulders. If he could just make this one point, give his team a breather and the satisfaction that came with taking a hard-fought point.

He wants to think he could have avoided it, if he hadn’t kept his eyes glued on the ball during his run up, he would have seen the three middle blockers coming up to completely shut him down, not leaving any space to do a cross and blocking his straight too. He didn’t panic, he could still manage a block out and in the worst-case scenario it would just get picked up.

His hand hits the ball with a satisfying crack, making it ricochet against Suna’s hand, his fingers snapping back so fast one could fear they would just fly off. He follows the arch it paints in the air, stretching far and out of the players reach, his heart thrums as adrenaline pumps through his veins, but he doesn’t see it fall in the surrounding bleachers. His vision tilts sideways and he has a fraction of a second to realize his foot landed on something uneven before he’s on the floor.

Everything is black for a moment and his ears are filled by a low buzzing, he doesn’t get it, why is he staring at the ceiling? The harsh lights blind him and he finds it hard to reconnect his brain.

_Oh, right, I fell._

He jerks into a sitting position as if electrocuted, vision doing a full revolution before it recalibrates on their side of the court, his teammates peering down at him nervously. His face is hot in humiliation and he swats at the offered hand, stretching from under the net, before realizing it might be seen as unsportsmanlike and called out by the referee.

He manages to get on his feet only to crumble back down again, right knee hitting the ground heavily as searing hot pain travels from his ankle up to his left leg. He grunts, trying to relieve the pressure in his aching limb, foot pulsing and barely responding to his inputs.

The stadium seems to have grown eerily quiet but his mind is loud, alarms going off in every direction because he _can’t fucking stand up_. It all downs on him then, how he had landed badly on the adversary foot -the fact it might be counted as foul in their favour sounds insignificant right now-, how he had lost his balance and fell and how he had probably injured his ankle in the process.

Sprains, for how irksome of a matter they were, are still fairly frequent in volleyball, being the top most common injuries, that’s why he always made sure to pay extra attention to his form and movements. That’s why it never happened to him before.

He tries to breathe through the knot of anxiety creeping up his throat, diaphragm blocked and head threatening to explode at any moment, he keeps his eyes shut closed as someone lifts him from under his armpits, throwing an arm over his shoulders and hisses when they start limping out of the court like a cripple and his human-crutch.

The next seconds are a blur of people passing back and forth in front of him, talking to him, telling him to sit down then to lay down as their physiotherapist inspects the damage made to his ankle. He refuses to open his eyes as he hunches in on himself, feeling too vulnerable and unstable, his hands are shaking where they grip his shorts and he’s breathing in short, strangled hisses, teeth clenched too tightly to let enough air pass through.

He lashes out when someone, probably another medical staff member, pushes on his shoulder to make him lay down, he doesn’t realize he has shouted “Don’t touch me” until he notices the now empty circle surrounding him, everyone having stepped a good foot back. He still feels shaken, his body ultimately coming down from the adrenaline height of the game and the stress of the current situation. His skin is crawling, sweat feeling like oil, filthy and thick, he’s too overly aware of the smell of sweat and drenched fabric around him and his stomach swims in nausea, making him all the more anxious.

When he’s fairly sure he’s going to throw up or scratch his arms raw, someone pushes through the crowd of people staring at him, “Hey, c’mon now don’t crowd ov’r him so much, isn’t yer job to actually _do something_ in situations like this?”, as eloquent as ever Atsumu makes himself be heard as he stops some feet away from Kiyoomi and if he didn’t feel it before now he truly wants to _die_ or momentarily disappear from the world.

Because Atsumu has never seen him break like this before. Like he is paper thin glass, reflecting light blindly to keep people away and hide his frail, ragged ends. Now he’s a jumble of shards, body twisted in sharp angles, ready to cut whoever merely brushes against him and Atsumu is staring at him so tenderly he wants to rip that expression off his face and hold it to his heart. Never letting it go.

He opens his mouth to rebuff him, because they are in the middle of a game and they need to keep their focus at maximum, but nothing comes out. “Don’t worry, the other team called for a time-out”, he nods and stares at his knees, “Listen”, Atsumu is way closer now, crouched down beside him but not invading his personal space, he’s tapping his fingers on his flexed thighs and Kiyoomi loses himself into the uneven beat, “Jus’ do what they tell ya, alright? I’m gonna close this off real quick, jus’ bear with me a little, yeah?”. He stares at him then nods slowly.

Atsumu seems content with that and he stands up in time for the whistle to go off, signalling the end of the time-out, he heads back to the court with a curt, “Give him a clean towel”, tossed the equip way.

They win the match two-nil, the last point being Atsumu’s crueller dump in his whole contract with the Black Jackals. They do him the favour of abstaining from the ending line up and handshakes, as the teams scatter in different directions he gets a glimpse of Suna raising his hand while tilting his head down in a makeshift bowing action, he raises his hand back then stares at his swelling ankle wrapped in towels and icepacks. He cringes and sighs.

*

The sprain is a mild one, the therapist they consult once they get home only confirms what had been previously presumed. He recommends for him to rest for a couple of days, the time it will take for the swelling to go down and for it to feel overall better. Keep it iced and elevated and, if possible, don’t put any kind of strain on it, he refuses to prescript him any painkillers, ignoring Kiyoomi’s insistence -Atsumu has to put his hand on his thigh, squeezing just a bit more than what’s moderate- saying that subduing the pain would only make him think he could actually walk on it or put any kind of weight. In six weeks it would be completely healed. Six weeks. The Spring tournament is in less than a month.

So total repose it is. His patience runs out faster than he could’ve imagined.

On Friday he takes advantage of Atsumu being out for practice to limp over the bathroom and clean it thoroughly, relieving in the smell of disinfectant and soap. He does the laundry next, Atsumu did it yesterday so there are only a few garments on the basket outside the bathroom door, he sits on a wooden footstool while he watches the spinning clothes, waiting for the machine to finish, then he moves the wet bundle of fabric into the dryer, repeating the ritual.

Atsumu finds him there, sitting in front of the beeping machine long legs stretched out awkwardly to fit in the cramped space. What follows is an array of cusses as Atsumu hauls him to his feet and drags him back to the bed squeezing the air out of him as he tilts him towards his body in order to not put any weight on his injured foot.

That night he lies down beside him and shoves his phone in his face, “Omi-Omi have ya read all the nice stuff our fans are sayin’ to ya? Ya haven’t right, you’re such an ungrateful jerk”. Kiyoomi doesn’t answer as Atsumu taps annoyingly at his phone, scrolling past several messages posted on their Twitter official page.

Kiyoomi has for a fact read through most of them, going as far as to stretch the corner of his mouth at some encouragingly silly ones. “They think we are a thing”, Atsumu’s voice sounds very smug and Kiyoomi frowns at him, trying to discern if he’s faking it or not. He considers the statement, “So what”, Atsumu just looks at him dumbly, “People will think whatever they want, they thought you and Hinata were a thing before”-“What’s that supposed to mean?! Me and Hinata woulda have been a hot couple!”, he resists the urge to strangle him with the sheets, “What I’m trying to say, if you wouldn’t interrupt me, is that I don’t care what people think. Of us”.

There’s silence and Kiyoomi thinks he might just drift to sleep, then “Of course ya don’t, you’re such a dull misanthrope after all”. Kiyoomi focuses on how soft the pillow is under his head, how cool the sheets feel on his skin, he pinches Atsumu’s side, the tiny part above his hip where the skin is supple and not rock hard like the rest of him. Atsumu squeals, _squeals_ and squirms away, face red and angry as he spews profanities at him.

On Saturday he peels himself from the bed cringing at how his hair bounce and curl messily around his forehead, he hops on one foot to the bathroom leaving the door open, Atsumu will surely rush there the moment his brain starts functioning again. Looking at his reflection he wrinkles his nose, his skin is awful -he considers shaving while rubbing a hand under his jaw repetitively-, his eyes are circled in dark shades and he looks considerably slimmer, or that’s what he thinks while poking at his bicep, but he has skipped practice for a total of three days, his muscles can’t have already shrunk this much.

“Stop beatin’ yerself like that, you’re as beefy”, Kiyoomi gives him a deadpan stare, “an’ obnoxiously hot as always”, he smiles then, wide and lazy and Kiyoomi wonders if he’s aware of what he’s saying. He waits three seconds then assumes Atsumu’s brain has finally taken a leap of faith and jumped out of the window.

“I have to wash my hair”, he plucks one curly strand between his thumb and forefinger twirling it around. “Oh, uhm, sure can do”, Atsumu waddles to the back of the bathroom and retrieves the same footstool Kiyoomi was sitting on the other day, drawing the shower curtain he places it down then looks at him expectantly.

“What”, Atsumu rolls his eyes at him and Kiyoomi considers going back to the bed and not talking to him ever again. “Get yer ass here, Omi-Omi, and before ya say no, you’re basically shaking to stay balanced on one foot”. Kiyoomi scoffs, looks down at his feet and slowly turns around, hands seizing the edge of the sink. He accepts Atsumu’s outstretched hand who pulls him across the bathroom in one swift movement.

That’s how he ends up sitting in only his briefs in a stool that’s way too small for him, knee almost touching his nose where he folded his leg -the injured one is once again stretched out and resting on a pillow Atsumu’s retrieved from the living room with the promise of washing it later- and back hunched forward.

Atsumu pokes at the prominent knobs of his spine in a silent request to straighten up, “You know that yer brief will get wet”, as if on clue Atsumu pours water on his head, tilting it back by cupping his jaw, Kiyoomi grunts and his eyes flutter shut.

His shoulders slump when Atsumu starts to massage his scalp, fruity scent filling the room, he doesn’t realize he’s been making a low humming sound until Atsumu points it out. “I could keep ya like this forever, Omi-Omi, it’s like petting an overgrown, grumpy cat”, and “Aren’t ya sweet, Omi-kun. Pretty, pretty Omi-kun”, Atsumu cooes and repeats the praises like he’s talking to an infant or an actual kitten.

He doesn’t find it in himself to elbow him in the gut, head lolling sideways when his strong, deft fingers start pressing on his cervix. Atsumu lathers his hair up a second time then rinses them out. By the end of it Kiyoomi is so pliant and woozy that he doesn’t even complain when Atsumu offers to replicate his hair routine for him, going through hair masks and foams like he’s been doing it his whole life.

When he’s finished, curls dry and fluffy, he brushes his fingers through them. Kiyoomi pretends he doesn’t see him planting a feather like kiss atop his head from the reflection in the mirror.

On Sunday he wonders how Atsumu still hasn’t packed his stuff and fled to his brother’s house or crashed at one of their teammates’ place for as long as Kiyoomi’s ankle will take to heal. He’s been the most insufferable and unbearable being to be around and he knows it. Atsumu has been sleeping on the couch for three consecutive days now and he’s not sure if it’s because the first night Kiyoomi didn’t close eye and blamed it half-heartedly on him for snoring so loudly -he wasn’t serious, he’d gotten used to Atsumu rumbling like a kettle and tossing the occasional nonsense in the middle of the night-, because he’s had enough of his sour mood and he quotes, “fuckin’ ungrateful tantrums” or because he didn’t want to unconsciously hurt him.

Kiyoomi still hasn’t gotten a full night of sleep since Tuesday and not even burying himself under too many blankets for how warm the weather was now and wearing Atsumu’s loosest hoodie, the orange one with the badly drawn onigiri on the front and the holes in the sleeves -where Kiyoomi insistently pokes his thumbs in-, will make him comfortable enough to doze off when the sun is out and wake up when it’s up.

On Monday Atsumu walks on him in a quite compromising position.

He’s unfolded a towel over his bedspread and is laying on it, legs raised and knees bended as he maintains an impeccable crunch position, core straining and two full bottles of water in his hands. Atsumu stares at the long expanse of his bare legs before looking at his face, “Why aren’t ya wearing pants and why the bottles?”, he seems to be unable to decide which one is more disconcerting.

Kiyoomi tries to ignore him, focusing on his breathing, but Atsumu staring at him from the door like he’s walked into the wrong apartment and was asked to bring out the trash by the talking houseplant, doesn’t surely help his concentration. His abs start to quiver and he sighs in defeat, turning his bust to set the bottles on the floor, legs and back still not touching the bed.

“The weights are on top of the wardrobe and I couldn’t reach them and I read somewhere that using full bottles is a good replacement”. Atsumu looks at him like he’s asking how someone as tall as him can’t reach on top of their wardrobe then he looks back at Kiyoomi’s legs and his mouth shapes into a little “oh”. Then he asks, “And the pants?” to which Kiyoomi refuses to answer, folding his healthy leg to rest the foot over his knee, Atsumu makes a gagging sound at the sight of his bare toes and bony metatarsus.

“The doctor said you shouldn’t exert yerself yet”, he moves through the room as he speaks, discarding his hoodie inside the laundry basket, Kiyoomi follows him movement closely as he goes back and forth from the bathroom, “I’m not exerting my ankle so I don’t see where the problem is”, Atsumu comes back out holding a bottle, the third he brought out of the bathroom, and places it on top of the second, low dresser. “What”, he fishes a pair of nytril gloves out of nowhere, “are you doing”. 

“I got something for us, now pick, vanilla, mango or chocolate?”, he looks at him wondering if he hit his head somewhere or Bokuto spiked him in the face, but he looks completely confident. “Why”, the word leaves his mouth loud and showing all the confusion he is feeling, his face warming at how it sounded to his own ears. Then in a smaller voice he adds, “I like mangos”.

“Take off yer shirt”, Kiyoomi does the opposite of that, crossing his arms protectively over his chest and giving him a look that says “I’m not doing anything until you tell me what you have in mind”, or just “I’m not doing what you tell me to do”.

Atsumu huffs and plucks up one of the bottles, “I wanted to give ya a massage, thought it would help ya relax a bit. Besides ya seemed to have liked when I scratched yer scalp, wanna try the full treatment?”, the last sentence sounds like something someone in a cheap commercial would say, he cringes and mutters “gross” to which Atsumu rolls his eyes.

“I have to take a shower first”, wait, is he really considering it now? He thinks back at how good getting his hair washed had felt and a shiver runs up his spine, resting on his nape in the form of a dozen scorching needles. “You’ll need to take one after too”, Atsumu provides him, a knowing smirk plastered on his face.

He frowns and holds his ground, straightening his shoulder from their hunch, “Then I will take two showers”. Atsumu’s mouth widens and he huffs a short chortle, that dies with Kiyoomi’s next words, “You will too”. He ignores the complains that Atsumu always takes the time to share even if he ends up doing whatever makes Kiyoomi comfortable anyways, and hops his way to the bathroom.

Showering isn’t a big of a deal if he leans on the wall and doesn’t move around at all, he honestly thinks to be endowed with an abnormal balance, like a cat. When he steps out, bathrobe wrapped securely around his tall frame, Atsumu is standing at the sink washing his hands up to his arms, he assures him he took a shower back at practice and has just finished washing his feet and hands, Kiyoomi nods and lets him off the hook way more easily than he would have done if he had slept eight consecutive hours the last night.

Once they are back in the bedroom, Kiyoomi laying on his stomach, a new towel stretched out under him and shirtless, anxiety starts crippling back up his spine, skin twitching minutely as he waits for Atsumu to do something, anything.

He doesn’t like this position and his neck can crane just so much and still he’s not able to capture all of Atsumu in his line of sight. A feather like touch runs up his calf and he tenses before relaxing as a pillow is jammed under his injured ankle.

“Okay?”, he grunts in answer and stuffs his arms under his chin, flexing his shoulders to try and get rid of the tension there. “I’m waiting for you to do something”, Atsumu huffs and uncaps a bottle muttering a half-hearted “pushy”.

The room fills with the tropical smell of mangoes and a pinch of something more pungent that probably belongs to the oil itself. He’s spent some good time reading through the label on the back of the bottle, hypoallergenic oil made with natural ingredients. When he pointed out that unscented products where usually more suitable Atsumu just shrugged his shoulders and said “Where’s the fun in that”. Says the one who bought a chocolate scented massage oil.

The first touch of Atsumu’s fingers -to both their surprises he tossed the gloves back in their box saying they would just make the whole ordeal stickier- sends his head in orbit and his arms tremble under the strain he’s putting on them to stay still. “Hey there”, Atsumu’s hands slide up his sides and rest just above his shoulder blades, rubbing in small circles. “I’m gonna apply more pressure now, tell me if ya don’t like anythin’ ”. A heavy weight settles on his thighs and Atsumu forces his shoulders down, open palms spread out and thumbs digging into sore muscles.

He settles a pattern then, mapping out the expanse of Kiyoomi’s broad upper back jamming his fingers in the knots of muscles he encounters on his way, trying to relieve them without actually pissing off the grumbling man under him. He stops only to apply more oil to his hands and Kiyoomi doesn’t really succeed in smothering the whine that rips from his throat.

As Atsumu starts making his way down, taking an abrupt turn after pressing his fingers into a particularly painful and stubborn muscle at the base of Kiyoomi’s neck that made him spasm and rise to his elbow with a menacing growl, hot, boiling blood starts rushing to his stomach and _lower_. A soft moan escapes his lips when Atsumu rubs his thumbs just above the hem of his briefs and he breathes out sharply through his nose when he feels his erection starting to fill out.

Atsumu’s body scoots up, powerful thighs enclosing his waist, pelvis barely brushing the swell of his ass as he carries on with his sweet torture, fingers sliding under Kiyoomi’s hips and dragging back in a repetitive motion. He leans down, hot breath fanning on his exposed nape, “Omi-Omi”, he breathes, “The oil is edible”, he emphasizes it by liking a long, hot stripe along the prominent knobs of his vertebrae. Kiyoomi trembles.

He knows the oil is edible, he read it along the other information on the back of the bottle, but thought Atsumu didn’t actually grasp it when he picked the set. Let alone buying it for that reason.

A pang of arousal hits him like a punch in the stomach and he grasps one of Atsumu’s hands dragging it to his aching hard on, lifting his hips to fit them in the cramped space. “Fuck”, Atsumu breathes in his ear and he agrees with a noncommittal, drown out groan.

He hisses when Atsumu slips his hand inside his brief, the head of his cock poking out as he strokes him slow and infuriating. He presses his hips down, forcing the grip tighter and gaining a new level of friction that makes his vision blurry and tears a choked moan from his chest.

“Fuck, Omi-Omi, if I knew ya liked to be touched so much I would’ve glued my hands on yer body since day one”, he’s laying flush on top of him and his weight would have crushed him if he wasn’t equally as wide and compact, his pelvis is pressed against his ass and he can feel the outline of his erection through the loose sweats he’s wearing. In an uncharacteristic display of mercifulness, Kiyoomi shifts his body back, pushing his lower back up and against Atsumu’s lap.

An aborted cry leaves Atsumu’s mouth and he grips Kiyoomi’s bicep so hard it actually stings a bit, “Omi- fuck, don’t- _fuck_ ”, Kiyoomi repeats the motion, again and again and Atsumu looses any sense of restrain that kept him grounded till a second ago. He humps his hips forward, clothed erection rubbing against the cleft of Kiyoomi’s ass, his hand moving as best as it can under their bodies, thumb brushing over the slick tip of Kiyoomi’s cock to compensate the poor rhythm he’s managed to set up.

Atsumu’s breath is loud and damp on his neck, choked sounds vibrating out of his chest and into Kiyoomi’s back. His movement gets erratic as he sneaks his free arm under his waist, lifting his body higher and spreading his open palm over Kiyoomi’s abs. He moves one of his own hands and interlaces it with the one pressed against his abdomen, body shuddering as he comes with a mellow groan. “Didya just- fuck”, Atsumu rocks his hips forward three more times before he too reaches his climax, face hidden in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck as he cusses his way down the high of adrenaline.

They are utterly filthy, come drying inside both their briefs and oil still matting the skin of Kiyoomi’s back and soaking through Atsumu’s shirt, he will regret it soon, a part of him is already regretting it but he’s spent and warm and he can barely feel the throb of his ankle. He drifts to sleep without even realizing it.

*

When he wakes up he’s laying on his back and his skin isn’t sticky or itchy anywhere. He’s wearing a loose long sleeved shirt and there is a thin blanket draped over his body, turning his head he spots Atsumu sitting cross legged on his side of the bed, flicking through one of the old issues of Volleball Monthly -the one reporting his newest addition to the Black Jackals as starting setter he recognizes as he stares into the printed smiling face of his boyfriend, his hair are a revolting shade of mustard yellow and he wonders if they were edited like that or they actually looked so bad. Peering back at the real Atsumu he considers his hair and concludes that the paler blonde suits him best. “Go back to sleep, you’ll take a shower once I’m sure ya won’t fall asleep standing like a horse”. He bites back, “Don’t tell me what to do”, but seeing how Atsumu drops the magazine and snorts, his face blurry like those low resolution videos of unknown college volleyball matches he manages to fish out from the internet and show him in the middle of the night, it probably didn’t come out as resolute or intelligible at all.

He likes getting his hair pet. “Want me to pet ya, then?”. Did he say that aloud? Sleep deprivation is really getting at him, but Atsumu is carding his fingers through his curls, scratching his scalp just the right way to make him soften and melt in the bed.

He might actually survive the next weeks of house arrest if he gets to be petted like this every day. He makes a mental note to find some good blackmail to prevent Atsumu from ruining his image.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while I was in a very dark mental place then picked it back up and worked around it to make it work and not hurt sm. I hope the result will be enjoyed!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
